My shoulders drop, the pain in my chest immense, but I keep my chin high. I did what I had to do. I’ll do whatever I need to in order to survive.
LI.
Kerasea
Torren keeps his word and brings Mirial’s body to the divining room, carrying her up the ten flights of stairs. It’s nearly midnight by the time she’s resting on the altar, wrapped in bedsheets. She looks so much smaller than she was in life, but death diminishes us all.
Zel sits stock-still in the corner as I stand at the altar in my ceremonial robe. Once Torren left my room, I changed again, because he’d expect me to be in temple robes. But now I have to figure out how to get rid of Zel, since I can’t have her or anyone else in here for this.
At least Torren believes I am about to cut Mirial open—so he won’t ask further questions about why I need privacy. It was a solid cover for an egregious error.
“Will you grant me a truce for an hour and not arrest her?” I ask, pointing to Zel.
He nods.
“Return to your chambers, Zel. Bathe and grab bedding along with things you need to remain here for the duration. I’ll bring you back shortly.”
“Yes, Excellency. Thank you, Excellency.” She looks from me to Torren and then flees, giving the Praetorian a wide berth.
Alone with him once more, I wait for him to leave. Yet there’s a part of me that wants him to stay.
“I can come back to move the body when you are done,” he says, lingering.
I shake my head. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll burn her with the eternal flame.”
Lines appear on his brow. The brazier is, of course, not nearly large enough for a human corpse, but he has seen me summon the god and manipulate the eternal flame. There is logic and then there is the divine. He’ll believe I can burn her remains.
He nods and then gives me a short bow before exiting the divining room. There’s no time to worry about the strain between us and no room to feel regret for the confusion and pain in his eyes.
Just as when we were children, I was left with no choice but to hurt him. I wish it weren’t this way, but wishes are pointless in this world. I’ve wished my whole life to be something different than what I am, yet I’ve remained the same.
I lock the door and then wait, estimating the time it will take for him to leave the tower. Then I slowly unwrap the sheets. The ones around Mirial’s head are wet, soaked in dark blood and viscera. Her skull must have split from the impact of the fall.
A thousand lies on the one who pushed her.
But I am the one who is truly cursed. By blood and by birth. By what I’m about to do.
I bite the inside of my cheek. This is such a remarkably foolish thing. Of all the acts I shouldn’t do at Jubilee, this is at the top of the list. If Mirial were alive, she’d tell me to leave right now.
But she is dead and I am out of options.
I have to know what happened. The murdered senators, even Antinous, were one thing; this is another. Mirial was my friend, like a mother to me, but more than that, she was a pillar of the Faith. Someone believed they could get away with killing a priest of my temple. It is my duty to stop them. I believe this is worth the risk.
I just hope I’m right.
“God of truth, forgive your humble servant for her lies,” I say, bowing my head. “And forgive me for using your holy place for my own means. I have nowhere else to turn than into your arms.”
I lower my head in prayer. I hope my god will accept me polluting this sacred space with a call to another. But truth and death walk hand in hand. There must be an understanding, or at least shared indifference to mankind.
I finish unwrapping her head and sigh. Poor Mirial. Looking at her like this, her eyes wide open in fear, I know there isn’t a chance this was accidental. Someone murdered her.
Yet this close to a dead body, it’s hard to think about anything other than the pull of godless death.
There is a distinct call in me from an ancient, primordial power. One cold and usually silent but just as ever present and knowing as the god of truth. Perhaps more so.
Death covers Mirial like a shadow. My body hums as if there’s music, but there is no one playing. It’s the magic in my blood swirling and surging, begging for release. My pulse beats until it makes my skin painful at my neck and wrists—the life points being the natural draw for death. There is only one relief.
I take the sickle knife and cut a shallow line on my left wrist, careful not to hit the veins that throb. There’s pain, but also the absence of it. I’ve wondered if all Elusians felt this same urge, but there was no one to ask. It wasn’t until I saw the fresco in the banquet room that I realized all of my bloodline felt this way.
